The Tiara on the Terrace (14 page)

“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” I shivered.

Trista nodded and drew in deeply on her inhaler again.

Grace ran her hands through her hair and paced. “Who else knows we're down here right now?” Grace asked, her
voice rising in panic. “Tell me someone else knows.”

I pictured Rod. My last hours on earth, and I left him waiting for me at a row of port-a-potties. The stink of sewage and eye-watering disinfectant fumes would be his final memory of me. I closed my eyes and concentrated all my brain waves on sending him a message to come find us, then I wheeled around and pummeled my fist against the door as hard as I could. “Hello!” I cried out. “Anyone there?”

“This place is ventilated, right?” Grace's question came out all in a rush. “Like, we're not going to run out of air?”

I rubbed my bare arms. “Pretty sure we'll freeze to death first.”

Grace raised a warning finger at me. “Don't you dare joke about that.”

Behind us, Trista coughed again. Grace looked back. “Are you okay?”

Trista nodded. “Totally fine. Stupid allergies! Ugh, why didn't I take my medicine? Just need another . . .” She trailed off and looked at her inhaler. “Puff.” She held it up, squinting at it like it was some alien artifact that she'd stumbled upon amid the flowers. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” I asked.

“It's empty,” she said in disbelief.

I banged on the door again until the heel of my hand
stung. “Open up!” I shouted. My breath left another foggy trail, but nothing about it was funny this time. Not one thing.

Grace turned to Trista hopefully. “Maybe you've got a refill in one of your pockets?”

“‘Course I do,” Trista said, unzipping one cargo jacket pocket after another and feeling around. “I always do.”

“You won't need them. We'll be out of here in a sec,” I said, trying to sound calm. I scanned the room. My heart thudded against my chest like it was trying to escape.

“If we could somehow get that vent open”—I pointed to a square grate in the ceiling next to a giant cooling fan—“I might be small enough to fit through it.”

“I'll lift you up!” Grace said. Flowers spilled over as she shoved buckets aside to make shelf space, then she boosted me up as high as she could. The shelves rattled as I hoisted myself higher. I felt like I was on the float barn scaffolding again, closing in on my target.

“It's got to be around here somewhere,” Trista muttered to herself, searching her pockets again, her breathing ragged.

I tried to keep my own breaths even as I wriggled toward the vent. Up close, it looked way too narrow for me to fit through—but I had to hope. “Listen, lots of people saw Barb
send us off,” I said, hoping I sounded more sure than I was. Rod was probably at the port-a-potties right that second. Would he worry?

“Let's hope you're right,” Trista said, her voice so much fainter than usual.

I slipped my fingers through the vent grate and tugged. Screws held it tight at every corner. I stuck my thumbnail in one and tried to turn it. My nail snapped. “Ow,” I muttered to myself. Jardine Thomas knew nothing about real nail-breaking emergencies.

“How's it going, Soph?” Grace tried to sound casual. She wasn't fooling anyone.

“Great! I think this could work!” I called back cheerfully. “Hey, you guys see anything around we could use as a screwdriver?”

Trista started to look around, but Grace held up her hand. “I got it. You take it easy,” she said before tearing around like a robber ransacking the place. She spilled over more flower buckets. She looked under the shelves and riffled through a burlap bag in the corner. She flung open a big rectangular cooler and toppled over a jar. Red cranberry seeds hissed as they poured to the floor.

“What about your—?” Trista rasped faintly, raising one finger.

Just as I figured out that she was pointing to my dog tags from Grandpa Young, a sound like an airtight jar opening made us all turn to look.

The door banged open. Warm air rushed in with the blinding sunlight.

We squinted at the two silhouetted figures in front of us.

“T
hey
are
in there!” Ms. Sparrow cried out. The sun reflected in her coppery hair like a halo, making it feel like an actual angel was sweeping to our rescue. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I caught sight of something even more angelic: Rod stood right next to her.

“You guys all right?” he asked. His voice cracked, but relief washed over his face.

Ms. Sparrow's eyes widened as she spotted Trista breathing heavily.

“She needs her inhaler,” Grace called back.

“It's in my top drawer,” Trista wheezed.

Ms. Sparrow waved Grace toward the mansion and told her to hurry back with it. Grace shot forward like a runner out of a starting gate, gravel flying, while Ms. Sparrow offered a nonstop stream of soothing words as she and Rod
helped me lead Trista to a bench by the path. “I used to have asthma too,” she told Trista, who seemed to be catching her breath again. “Now I'm just stuck with these allergies. I take one step in the float barn and, ugh!” As calm as Ms. Sparrow's tone was, she had trouble hiding her worry.

“I'm just lucky I didn't faint,” Trista said.

“I'll say,” Ms. Sparrow replied, eyes wide.

“That happens if I have a full allergy attack sometimes,” Trista explained, waving off Ms. Sparrow's shock. “Don't worry. I'm good as long as I take my meds.”

Ms. Sparrow turned to me. “Sophie, are you okay?” she asked, her voice shaking the way it did the morning she told us about Steptoe. It made me feel even more shivery, though the sun was warming my back.

I nodded. I couldn't find my voice yet.

“Sophie and Rod, take the flower refills to Ms. Lund, please.” She motioned to the buckets inside the refrigerated compartment, her voice still wobbly as she asked us to have Lund send the Festival medic to take a look at Trista. “Please reassure Ms. Lund that everything's fine,” she added. “I don't want her to . . .” She trailed off, looking a little sheepish.

“Overreact?” Rod finished helpfully. Ms. Sparrow nodded, relieved we'd gotten the drift. It was true. If Barb Lund hadn't been the one to shut us in the fridge, she probably
would have called the marines, a SWAT team, and several ambulances—not to mention a K9 search and rescue team. Pookums would've loved that.

I turned to go back in the shed, but Rod flung his arm in front of me the way my mom does when we stop short at a traffic light. “Lemme bring them out to you,” he said, already lurching forward.

If my cheeks weren't still numb from the cold, I would've smiled. Rod quickly finished filling the buckets and loaded me up. Then we dashed along the path as fast as our lungs let us, buckets thumping against our sides. As we rounded the corner to the float barn, we had to stop to catch our breath.

“That was crazy scary, Soph,” Rod said, panting. He explained he'd waited for me for a while then figured Lund had sent us off somewhere else. His eyes turned dark. “Then, when Ms. Sparrow said she'd been looking all over for you—”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Didn't Ms. Lund tell her where we were?”

Rod frowned, trying to remember. “I guess not.”

“Listen. Trista says she hooked that door in place,” I said, gulping for air. “Someone shut us in there on purpose.”

Rod's eyebrows shot up. “Why would anyone—?”

“We think it might be Ms. Lund,” I whispered. “Maybe Lily.”

The squirrels behind us squawked and scurried after each other up a tree as Rod took in the news. “You serious?” he asked at last.

I darted a nervous look around as I pulled Lund's email from my jeans pocket. Up on the terrace, the Royal Court were practicing their waving and walking in full wardrobe, their occasional shrieks of laughter echoing down the hill to us. Danica and Denise hovered nearby, handing them mini–bottled waters and snapping pictures with the Festival disposable cameras.

My hands trembled as I handed over the email. “Oh, I'm serious, all right,” I said.

Rod stared at the paper long enough to read it at least twice. He shook his head slowly. “Where did you find this?”

“Trista thinks it could just be an angry email,” I said, hoping he didn't notice I'd ignored his question. “But look at the time. Mr. Steptoe was found dead twelve hours later.”

Rod squinted toward the float barn. “Steps from her office. On a float.”

“Exactly. Nobody knows those floats better than Lund.” I clenched and unclenched my hands nervously. “We think
she knows we're onto her. She or Lily shut us in to scare us or maybe . . .”

“. . . worse,” Rod finished for me. He tugged at a curl at the back of his head. “I'm really freaked out, Sophie. How are you not freaking out right now?”

The truth was, if I'd actually eaten lunch, it would have come back up and landed on his shoes right then. But I stood up as straight as I could. “Because I know we'll figure this out.” I stopped myself before adding “in time.” He didn't need that reminder.

Rod nodded uncertainly. “Maybe my dad will finally listen.” He tapped the email. “I can keep this to show him, right?”

I looked toward the mansion and hesitated. It didn't feel right not to hand it over. It was his dad's life at risk, after all. “Yeah . . . I think so,” I said. Then, a little louder: “Sure.”

Rod crammed the email in his pocket and pointed to the buckets of flowers. “I'll take care of these. Pretty sure Lund's the last person you want to see right now?”

I grinned. “Good guess.”

He loaded himself up and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Rod?” I called back.

“Yeah?”

There had to be some other way to say it—some words
that would mean more than the same phrase people used if someone poured them lemonade or held a door open. But if there were, I couldn't find them.

“Thank you,” I said. The words sounded even smaller than I thought.

Rod shrugged. “No problem,” he said, and turned toward the float barn, buckets rattling against his knees as he headed off.

I hurried down the path back to Trista but ran into Grace on the way. She rushed toward me and grabbed my hand. Hers was still ice-cold.

“The medics checked out Trista and took her up to our room to rest.” She panted. “She's totally fine.”

“I'm not sure I am.” I shivered a little.

“Me neither.” Grace looked back down the path toward the shed. A truck creaked down the side driveway toward the float barn, where volunteers were streaming in and out with supplies. “You think Lund locked us in? It had to be her or Lily, right?”

“Lots of people saw her send us down there, though.”

“Sophie, whoever it is, they're definitely onto us. We don't have much time.”

“Don't worry. We might not even need it,” I said.

Grace cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“I just talked to Rod and told him we were shut in. He's as scared as we are. He's taking Lund's email to his dad, and he's pretty sure Mr. Zimball's got to take this seriously now.”

Grace was silent for a long time. She let her hand drop from mine. “You just . . . gave the email to him?”

“It's his dad were talking about. You know that. How could I not tell him?”

Grace's lips clamped together. She shook her head and fixed her eyes on some rose petals that had scattered from the arbor onto the path. “Well, you could have waited and asked, you know,” she said after another long pause. “We're a team. We're running an investigation. You can't just up and hand over our evidence to everyone.”

“‘Everyone'? I gave it to Rod. Not ‘everyone.'” An odd thick feeling filled my throat. “Grace, we need help,” I said quietly. “And this is our best hope right now. You have to admit that.”

Grace scuffed the toe of her sneaker against the path and shrugged, then jerked her head up as a clatter of footsteps rang out behind me. “Oh my god, are you guys all right?” Kendra asked breathlessly as we turned to find a cluster of very worried royal faces peering back at us. In their bright-
pink business suits and silk neck scarves, Jardine, Sienna, and Kendra looked like flight attendants who'd just hopped off a flight from Bora-Bora. “We rushed from Scarf-Tying as soon as we heard,” Kendra added. As silly as her words sounded, I was a little touched.

“So freaky,” Denise said, her brown eyes wide, and the rest of them agreed. Sienna reached out and ruffled my hair. “Jake would've killed me if something happened to you on my watch.” She smiled. “Glad you're okay. For both of our sakes.”

“We heard someone shut you in,” Danica said. The sparkly blush she must've been experimenting with shimmered in the sun.

“Wow. Rumors spread fast.” Grace shot me a look and sighed.

“The door just shut by accident.” I shrugged. “No big deal.” My supposedly casual shrug probably looked more like a spasm.

“Everyone thinks some jealous seventh grader shut you in because she thought you shouldn't be pages,” Denise said. Her eyes flicked to Kendra, and I wondered if Denise was talking about Marissa. Then she rushed to tack on: “But that's so stupid! I mean, obviously, you guys are the best.”

“And no one would think you don't deserve to be pages,” Danica added, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Ever.”

I was beginning to understand why Danica and Denise's child acting career in LA never panned out.

“C'mon,” Jardine said, almost sweetly. “We've got our first photo shoot on the terrace. We're definitely going to need your help. If you're up for it?”

Grace promised the Court we'd join them after we cleaned up a bit, and we practically sprinted back up to the mansion. As soon as we were inside, she tugged me toward the first floor powder room and shut the door.

“I'm sorry, Grace. I swear Rod would have never run off and told everyone we were shut in. He—”

“Of course he wouldn't.” Grace waved her hand. “They're just being them. Listen, we'll talk about that later. Let's see if we can find anything else in those emails. If Mr. Zimball's going to help—and I sure hope you're right about that—maybe there's something more we can hand over.” She pushed aside the bottles of Pretty Perfect lining the vanity to make more room. It was funny to think that a day ago I'd been in that same bathroom, steeling myself for clipping
Kendra's toenails or whatever I thought it meant to be a royal page. Little did I know that being a page was going to be the easy part.

I fanned out the emails we'd printed out from Mr. Steptoe's office on the marble countertop and we sorted through them.

There was lots we didn't understand. Various officials wrote confirming meetings, orders, and Festival plans. An email exchange between Mr. Steptoe and Mr. Katz caught my eye:

Hi, Josh,

As you know, your things are still in my office. I must say, I'm going to miss your inspirational posters—I've needed the encouragement. Still, it's been two weeks now. I'd appreciate it if you can move the remainder of your things today before you leave. I'll be here till midnight, at least. Miyamoto's is delivering the tiara for the big unveiling tomorrow, then I'll be doing my float rounds. Come by anytime! Doesn't matter if I'm in the office or not.

I know it's not fair it had to shake out this way. I'm deeply saddened it's affected our friendship. It really shouldn't.

Fondly,

Jim

I could feel Katz's anger seething in his reply:

Had to shake out this way? It didn't, Jim. You know that. But fine. I'll be there tonight.

My hand trembled as I reached the email over to Grace. “Check this out.”

“Wow. Not exactly a friendly email,” Grace said, her expression darkening. “It sounds like he even thinks Steptoe could have stopped his demotion, doesn't it?”

“And that ‘I'll be there tonight.'” I shivered. “It sounds . . . threatening.”

Grace squinted at the page and read it again. “And if he went that night, what's he doing carrying out his stuff today?”

“Especially since he had to have stopped by that night.
All of his posters were gone.” I pictured the empty nails jutting from the blank walls in Mr. Steptoe's office, like rows of accusing fingers. “What time did Steptoe send that email?”

Grace looked down at the page. “Five oh five p.m.,” she said.

“You have that notebook in there?” I pointed to the messenger bag she'd grabbed from kitchen on our way in. Grace nodded and pulled it out. My handwriting looked a little shaky as I wrote:

M
R.
K
ATZ SENT
ANGRY EMAIL.

VISITED VICTIM BETWEEN
5:05
P.M. AND HIS DEATH.

A
RGUED WITH
P
OTENTIAL
V
ICTIM
#2
AT
B
ALL.